


Absent Mind

by GalaxyAqua



Series: Theory of Mortal Sentiments [2]
Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: (laden with lies), Adrenaline, Attempted Sexual Assault, Canonical Character Death, Faked Suicide, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Poor Life Choices, Pre-Canon, Sexual Harassment, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-09-02 15:37:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16789804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalaxyAqua/pseuds/GalaxyAqua
Summary: Amami Rantarou has never lived a rigorous life, but he wants to be possessed by a sensational thrill, wants the danger and the anguish of a relentless adventure pounding and screeching through his veins. He wants the unpredictable, wants the high of adrenaline to seize him, own him, grow him a spontaneous salvation as fierce as wings to fly.It’s a cut-brake, unstoppable force, one that drives him to his limits and steals the air from his lungs, that works his limbs until they ache and his heart until he’s tearless, fearless, and brave.Amami is not safe, but he could be.





	Absent Mind

Amami is not safe, but he could be.

Fundamentally, that is all there is to know about him.

Well, not exactly.

If he had to introduce himself properly – and it’s one of those spotlight moments that are typically eye-roll worthy, change channel, switch off, that kind of thing – then perhaps, most simply put, his life as an oh-so-wealthy socialite is prominent and grand and far from the worst.

Eye-roll worthy. Change channel. Switch off. That kind of thing.

Picture this. There he is, single earring more expensive than the average salaryman’s life earnings, dining nightly with the beau monde, a lavish life of cruise ships and flashy jewelry and antique shopping and art collecting. Classic, stereotypical, stable, _boring,_ and that’s where the problem begins.

Oh, he can brag alright. He is financially secure, physically healthy, fairly intelligent, well-mannered and clean. He is cultured, educated, courteous and drunk on superficial empathy.

There’s no room to complain, obviously. He could have more of the world in the palm of his hand than most people would see in their lifetime.

Only the funny thing about people with nothing to complain about is that they keep doing it anyway.

Like it matters. Like they matter. Like they’ll go down in history mattering, even if all they did was complain. People want to be remembered until the last person that utters their name is generations ahead, attaching it to a story that’s been told so many times that it isn’t true anymore. Or something like that.

And maybe everyone wants to have that kind of permanence in this world — leave their legacy, tell their story — but Amami wants none of it. Really. He wants no presence to adhere to, he wants to be purely theoretical and conceptual and undefinable.

If he is lost to the throes of time, so be it.

If he is known not as his father’s son, with all the glory and reputation it brings, so be it.

Amami has nought of the will to care about anything anymore, much less his appearance and how he is perceived — oh, and wouldn’t that make his father so mad, that greasy womanizer who keeps dressing up his only son to be like him knowing it would never stick. No, Amami doesn’t care.

This life was not made for him, and he is not made for these reputational chains that bind him.

Amami knows no freedom and this is how it starts.

He is suffocating. Stagnant. He lacks motion, lacks direction, lacks motivation, for anything. Everything.

But he’s just a filthy rich boy, so what does he know, right?

Yeah, fine, he’s alive, but he feels like he’s flatlining. Constantly. Over and over, no matter what he does, it all feels pointless.

Then, danger finds him.

Robbery at gunpoint, taken hostage by an anonymous group, pressed face to the floor. Heel to his skull. His life worth the digits they demand from his family.

His step sister is crying over the phone until she has him in her arms again, too willing to comply to keep him safe. Honestly, she’s such a drama queen, he’s _fine._

More than just fine.

He was ecstatic. He had never brushed so close with death, and staring down the barrel of that gun had made his heart beat so fast it could have sprung from his chest. Exploded.

It’s an amazing feeling.

Indeed, that is where it begins – an addiction of sorts, a fascination with the thrill, the rush, the expulsion of common sense for a rendezvous with the jaws of fear themselves.

Amami Rantarou could be safe, up in his glass balcony high above the rest of the world, but he isn’t.

* * *

Every night he jumps.

Haha, now, don’t be startled.

It’s nothing to do with suicide, or anything that drastic.

See, Amami thinks it would be easier to explain that way, easier to go with the excuse that his idle eyes had finally glazed over, life had lost its meaning, he had nothing and nobody and oh, woe is this poor rich brat that could never connect with people because he was too fucking spoiled and privileged, and oh no, poor thing, did he really have no will to live–

Nah, nah, that’s a little too heavy for his tastes.

He jumps because for a second his heart stops, and just before he hits the ground, he _soars._

* * *

Okay. Maybe some further clarification is in order.

The first time it happened, he _had_ thought he was going to die.

It was unintentional, as most dangerous things start, where he was seated a little too confidently on the edge of the balcony, peering a little too far into the horizon, before he slipped – a split-second blunder – and just like that, his name was going to dissolve into a shameful weapon against his family’s reputation.

But it didn’t.

And when he lay there on the lawn below, looking up at the sky bleeding orange as his legs bled into the grass, he realized he had never had that much fun in his life.

* * *

That night, in hospital, he had looked up the most risky feats humankind has ever accomplished, and decided that would become his bucket list.

For, haha, when he was older, of course.

Please, he wasn’t going to break the law or anything.

* * *

He’s learned to land on his feet, by the way.

Just so, you know, he doesn’t become that idiot that keeps breaking his legs because there’s no safety bars on his balcony or anything.

* * *

Anyway.

Perhaps this might come as a surprise given the facts Amami has offered up so far, but he also loves to read. Loves the solitude of it, loves the fact that when he reads, he is isolating himself from this world and immersing himself in another. It used to be enough for him, too.

To imagine living a tumultuous life elsewhere, instead of yearning for danger to strike this one.

Another thing. About reading.

It has been said that people who chase dangerous things have one pardon, and that pardon is metaphor.

Spoiler: metaphors won’t keep him safe.

Oh, theoretically, it makes sense. Literature saves people who recklessly chase storms, fling their lives into ruination chasing a hurricane, because it begs eyes to see the epicentre – eye to eye. Look straight into the very pupil of the eye of the storm that is calmest and safest, that is where storm-chasers are headed.

“Yes, look, dear,” says one of the maids of his household. She is an older woman that had been his caretaker from a young age and yet knew just as much about him as any passing stranger in the street. “You don’t want to get hurt. You are looking for something to satisfy you, because you are not an easy to satisfy child. When you find another toy, you will stop doing such foolish things.”

Laughable, really, and he’s able to laugh, but only because it’s no accurate deconstruction of him in the slightest.

“I’m not a child, anymore,” he responds haughtily. “And I don’t think I’m particularly difficult to satisfy. Some people fly planes for fun, and I want to fall out of one. Is it really that different?”

“Skydiving can be a thrilling pastime. I’m sure you can get an appointment arranged on a weekend you are free.”

He shrugs, agreeing so she won’t keep berating him, “I guess.”

What he doesn’t say is he wants to be pushed out of a plane without warning, one jump-started flirt with death, with only his wits to keep him alive. Falling into that fantasy, never landing that happy ending without having truly lived it page after page.

No, his fairytales are no castle affair. They’re death-defying stunts, broken bones he’s not allowed to pursue and a mind free of the thoughts that saturate it daily – a body and mind that is unmistakably free, and truly doing nothing but living.

Amami used to think reading was enough of a stimulus, almost enough to save him, enough immersion into a world unlike his own, but frankly, it was just a distraction.

Metaphors can save some thrillseekers, but there is a difference between the courageous and the reckless, and Amami is the latter.

Words will never justify his actions.

He’s no storm-chaser, not in the sense that he’s careening so desperately and hazardously after that one safe, quiet place protected by vicious winds, no, he _wants_ to be ripped to pieces and he wants to live through it.

And he wants to do it again and again and again.

Fear is his prime indulgence.

He wants to be a survivor. He wants to stand at the gates of death and spit in its face, sweating and shaking and grinning wildly – raw, unfettered, gleeful. Flourishing before it.

He wants to drown in the elation of it all. He wants to be able to look every opportunity in the face and declare, “I lived. You tried to stop me but I lived.”

He’s learned that he has a fatal attraction to things that could kill him.

But he doesn’t want to die.

* * *

Look.

In his defense, he only breaks the law a little. Not enough to get caught.

Dinner was uneventful. Three girls have tried to kiss him so far, and he’s really not about that life. One of them slipped a hand in his back pocket, whispering that her family would destroy his if he didn’t play along. He had been able to weasel out of that interaction fast, but it left him uncomfortable for the rest of the night.

Look, it was just a little escape, you know. He didn’t want to stay there, so he left.

Just nicked a discarded jacket from the back of someone’s chair, shrugging it on, slipping past security with a quick nod, and then he was off. Maybe he jumped the ticket gates at the train station, maybe he stole a candy bar from the kiosk, but these were things that wouldn’t be missed, he thought.

He was feeling his blood pumping, the anxiousness thrumming through his veins giving way to adrenaline.

Simple thrills. Start off small. Don’t break any more bones, just break some rules instead. It’s fine. Nobody has to know.

He’s fine.

* * *

He steals a bike just to crash it.

He finds another one and does the same, but cuts the brakes first.

It’s not enough.

There is just such an urgency in his veins, needing to go full-throttle as much as he possibly can, and he knows it’s something that he shouldn’t allow, lest he get seriously hurt, but there’s another part of him that’s screaming at him, telling him if he doesn’t do this _immediately_ , then he’ll never truly live.

* * *

He still goes to dinner, still gets dragged around by his tie, still gets pressed into corners by girls that have never been denied anything in their lives.

He almost feels bad for them, but it vanishes with the weight of hands on his arm, on his waist, on his neck.

“I thought we were dancing,” he murmurs, peeling fingers off his bicep, rolling his sleeves back down, stepping away.

“We are dancing, just a little closer than before,” insists the girl of the night, following his lead. She clutches his hands tightly, pulling him towards her. “Come on Rantarou, you can’t tell me you haven’t been flirting with me all evening.”

This genuinely alarms him to hear and he shifts his weight from foot to foot. Uncomfortable, but courteous. He knows not to cause a scene.

“Haha, no, really, sorry to disappoint, but I… haven’t?” He ventures cautiously, and as amicably as he can muster. His smile feels like it’s glued to his face. “I’ve just been nice.”

“Guys like you aren’t just nice to people,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You’re always after something.”

“No, I wasn’t— I didn’t mean to imply anything, I’m sorry,” he replies, trying to subtly move away, or at least free himself from her grip. “I’m really not flirting or anything, could you please let me go—?”

She reels him in for a kiss anyway, and this time he is too stunned to avoid it, too scared to make a ruckus if he pushes her off of him, too scared to hurt her if he even tries.

He manages to hold his breath and count to four when she finally frees him, then he sputters quickly, “Ha, I’m sorry, I have to go, I didn’t—”

“Aw, it’s so cute that you’re so shy. Was that your first kiss?” She asks him, pressing a palm to his cheek. She doesn’t wait for his reply, instead brushing his hair from his face far too intimately to be comforting. “You’ll learn to love it, don’t worry. Then it’ll come like second nature. Think of this as me doing you a favor.”

He slips away as fast as he can, washes the maroon of her lipstick off his mouth, frantically, and no it wasn’t his first, he just hates the way it was forced upon him, he _hates_ being forced to do fucking anything, he wants to be his own person, he fucking _hates_ this –

“And then Rantarou _pushed_ me,” she’s sobbing.

“Oh my god, are you okay?”

“He’s just the worst, playing with my heart like that.”

“Can’t trust anyone these days, can you?”

“What a waste of a pretty face.”

He finds a hoodie to pull over his head and ignores the tales being spun. And spun. And spun.

His father will probably be disappointed again, but he doesn’t care.

He rushes off through traffic without looking, running down dark streets, hoping to stave off the vengeful energy that infects him and finding no outlet for it.

Two high schoolers burst out of a house, excitement lacing their tones as they pass him.

“Did you see the latest _Danganronpa_ episode? It was insane!”

“I never thought they’d top Season 50, but they actually did that… poor Mamiko…”

Amami hunches his shoulders as he speeds ahead.

* * *

“One of these days, Rantarou, you’re going to fall in love with someone and then you’ll understand.”

Amami sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I get it. The right person comes along and suddenly it’s like everything is better and all that. _La vie en rose_ , or whatever _._ You’ve told me a million times.”

“A million and one now,” his sister amends, playing along with his hyperbole. “And you are the least romantic person I know.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” He grumbles.

“Girls adore you,” she tells him. “I don’t know why you won’t even give one of them a chance.”

“It’s just — it feels suffocating,” he says. “Like, even when it comes to kissing, there’s nothing wrong with it but they’re also literally stopping you from breathing.”

“They don’t stop you from breathing, you doofus,” she rolls her eyes. “I can’t believe I have to be the one to tell you, but you don’t need to hold your breath. Breathe through your nose. Or pull away to catch your breath.”

“I don’t want to,” he replies stubbornly. “I don’t want these people kissing me.”

“Rantarou, honey, you’re not five anymore. A kiss is nothing.” She taps her long nails against her phone. “Besides. You’re being kissed by beautiful women who are considerate of your feelings. I don’t know why you’re complaining. Unless you’re like, gay or something.”

“Hey sis,” he says gently, sensing the tightness in her tone. “Is everything okay?”

She looks at him for a moment, gaze unreadable, before looking back at her phone. “Just fine.”

* * *

Some nights, Amami tries to care.

About what, it’s hard to say. The fragility of a human ego, perhaps, or the way his status-hungry acquaintances seem to agree with his every uttered syllable, even if he is contradicting a statement from earlier just to test them.

Or, perhaps, it is the ever-curious question of, “Oh? I heard you’re a bit of a thrillseeker, aren’t you, Amami-kun?” behind a sharp manicured simper. “What do you do for thrills?”

He grins but it’s calculatory. “What do you think?”

A giggle, a quiet palm-over-mouth, slow bat of lashes. “Something dangerous? Violent? Scary?”

Charming, sweet, attentive, he brings his lips to softer hands, dances in mindless step with a crowd that laughs when he admits that maybe he’s touched a prescription drug without a doctor’s note (like he couldn’t afford to just buy it), and maybe he’s partaken in a few illegal streams online (but doesn’t everyone), and catches rides without a seatbelt (not a challenge at all).

He doesn’t tell them about the way he dreams of plundering through physical and psychological barriers, trying to break himself for that split-second crazy feeling that cannot be matched.

And he hates that he’s so selfish and no-good and unable to ever think about anyone but himself, he hates it so, so, so much – as _if_ it was possible that he was so heartless and callous, how dare he, the nerve of him, and yet sometimes the days just tangle together in a heavy gelatinous haze and he just wants to escape, escape, escape.

Be free from it all, be unconstricted, unrestricted, free from prying eyes and weighty words.

Amami knows he will never earn the freedom he yearns for but it doesn’t quell his longing, his scrabbling, his plea that chasing thrills will finally make his fruitless dreams come true and unchain him from this stagnant life (of nothingness, of monotony, of drifting insignificance and mindless inanity) he is forced to live – day after day after day.

It isn’t that the people are bad, or that he’s found himself on the wrong side of town, either.

There’s nothing that should spur him into retreat, and that might just be the worst part about it.

He selfishly wants to flee a place that has never been particularly cruel to him, never done more than he asked, never shown him any horrors he wasn’t prepared for. A place that has been kind on the whole, that has accepted him as he is and been nothing but hospitable to his careless whims and woes.

But he is selfish, and he knows this, and there is nothing he can do but continue on this path as if working on solvable impulses is a lifestyle that wasn’t bestowed upon him. As if he earned this right to be who he wanted, if he just let down his guard for just once and let loose, but he didn’t, he didn’t, he didn’t.

Amami Rantarou has never lived a rigorous life, but he wants to be possessed by a sensational thrill, wants the danger and the anguish of a relentless adventure pounding and screeching through his veins. He wants the unpredictable, wants the high of adrenaline to seize him, own him, grow him a spontaneous salvation as fierce as wings to fly.

It’s a cut-brake, unstoppable force, one that drives him to his limits and steals the air from his lungs, that works his limbs until they ache and his heart until he’s tearless, fearless, and brave.

He wants to be infected by it, to feel something ache in the space between his ribs, maybe pull at him and try to tear him apart so that he’d feel something – _anything –_ just once.

Indefinitely endangered, what an amazing life that would be to live. Just once.

Just once. He wants that, he wants to be somewhere nobody else has ever been, feel his chest burn with exhilaration.

He wants to feel alive.

His life has been so mediocre, and in those snapshots of pursuing danger for kicks, he feels like nothing matters and he is the only thing that exists. Time stops, and he experiences everything in fleeting, invigorating moments.

He has never been in love, but with adventure, he’s never been closer to it.

* * *

The night sky is a lot prettier without the jump, he realizes. Walking along the midnight streets, he sees the lone figure of a boy bouncing a ball against the wall.

Stepping up, the vision vanishes, and all he’s left with is an empty park, void of movement, void of silhouettes playing games in the darkness.

His head is pounding, paranoia catching every minute sound that passes him. His skin feels all gritty, and though he’s always been taught to keep his mouth shut to not disturb anyone unwittingly, he wants to forget his courtesies and scream.

He thinks there might be bruises blooming on his forearms now.

He thinks he might be losing his mind.

* * *

Oh, by the way.

His sister? Forget about her.

She isn’t important in this story from here on out.

(God, he was _so fucking stupid._ )

He’s fine.

* * *

Let’s just say he lost her. Or she lost him.

The implications are there if anyone ever needs them.

Some things are too horrifying to speak of, and Amami prefers to keep things lighthearted, that’s all.

He really might be losing his mind.

* * *

Amami’s starting to get used to living alone.

He misses the glass balcony, but not enough to go back. He still has enough money to get by so he’s not particularly in any dire circumstance, but he’s also learned that some people earn a living collecting recyclables off the street and selling them at the recycling centre to afford a single meal for the week.

He likes helping out.

To get his mind off things, maybe. But speaking to these people, learning about these people, that’s another kind of adventure.

It’s nice, for a while, to be the kind, reliable young man that his father might have scorned. To have genuine empathy, to discover the ways of the city without the burden of image or reputation.

Nice, but it’s not enough.

* * *

Nowadays, it seems like the rest of the world is moving in slow motion while he’s charging forward, and it frustrates him to no end.

Talk is cheap, so he swings by the darker parts of town when he can and goes looking for trouble. A throng of men squatting outside a bar seems like the perfect place to start, he muses, and he watches the largest of them stand – the leader, presumably.

“Yo pretty boy, you wanna get in with the wrong crowd?” The big guy asks, and if it were not for his well pressed suit, Amami might have thought he was a delinquent. Yakuza, then. “You’re headed in the right direction.” The yakuza tells him, “If you don’t, then you might wanna turn around and go back the way you came. This isn’t a good neighborhood to be in. Especially not at night.”

“Thanks for the heads up.” Amami says, and continues walking.

* * *

Wrangling a fake ID isn’t hard, not with a knack for bartering like his and a maturity beyond his years, and Amami pushes into an underground pub with a confidence he shouldn’t possess. He sticks out like a sore thumb, evidently more well put together than every other person there, and slips onto a bar stool with a practiced grace.

“Are you sure you should be hangin’ around here, kid? You may have fooled security but I know for a fact you’re not drinking age.”

Amami, who drifts in half-truths and has the habit of slipping out of confrontations with an enviable deftness, doesn’t bat an eye. “Are you sure you should be questioning me, old man?”

The man laughs heartily, raising his glass. “I have a grandson that’s just like you. Full of spunk. Always wrigglin’ into places he doesn’t belong.”

As if on cue, the bar doors burst open and a young man comes storming in. His hair’s a mess, frankly, and though his jacket hangs precariously off his shoulders, it’s clear from his crumpled gakuran that he’s a high school student at most. Amami doesn’t remember what middle schoolers are supposed to look like, but this guy would be a terrifying middle schooler if he was.

“Oi! Pops!” He growls, slamming his fist on the bar bench. “Did you trash my fuckin’ application?”

“Maybe I did, Kaito, but it was for your own good.” The glass is set back down as the elderly man looks wearily over his grandson. “You’re barely into high school, you can’t just throw your life away for some… show.”

“Oh, you bet I fucking can! And I’m gonna win the damn thing so stop getting in my way, you shithead! You’re in debt, you can hardly complain!”

“Excuse me, sir, we cannot have you harassing our patrons–”

“I was just leaving!” ‘Kaito’ huffs, shoving past the startled bartender. “I hope you keel over and die, old man!”

“Not before you, I won’t!”

“Momota-san,” the bartender interjects weakly. “Have you had too much to drink?”

The old man waves his hand dismissively, sinking into his seat with a sigh. “I just have an insolent grandson.” He pulls a ball of paper from his pocket, slowly unfolding it and looking at it forlornly. “I know he wants to help, but… this is a fool’s gamble. I wish these applications had stricter guidelines.”

“Application?” Amami inquires, leaning his elbows on the bench, feigning nonchalance. “What was he applying for?”

Grandpa Momota sighs. “A show. It’s called _Danganronpa_. Perhaps you’ve heard of it? I’m not much for it, it seems far too dangerous, but…”

“Oh, I’ve heard of it.” Amami replies, but the following words are a lie. “Love it. Can’t believe they could top Season 50, but they did. Poor Mamiko.”

That night, he looks up _Danganronpa_ on his overpriced smartphone and finds himself a new obsession.

* * *

Kids sign up to kill each other for fame, for fortune, for anything they want.

It’s all good fun.

Well.

It’s not, but it kind of is.

See, Amami doesn’t want fame or fortune, but he does want something else. Danger, as a thrillseeker – a survival-hungry, adventure-lover – he wants what _Danganronpa_ can give him.

Desperately.

It might just be the hit he’s missing.

So he dives in for more information.

Online, Amami can be anybody, he can just be another face in the crowd, and in the _Danganronpa_ forums, he finds that there are people willing to go to extraordinary lengths for this show. There is a world of horrors beyond the surface of what people see, and he is enthralled by it.

There are people who think like him. He’s never met someone who understood, before.

He makes a friend by the name of Enoshima, suspected not to be her real name, but alas, he adopted the alias Kamukura in a similar fashion. There’s a comfort in the anonymity, comfort in the way they converse and yeah, she’s a little fanatical, but it’s nice finding someone that understands.

That the world is boring, and danger – no, _despair_ – is the only way to fix it.

* * *

The interesting thing about friends is that Amami doesn’t really have any.

Never had any, honestly.

He might have played a sad song about it, but how do you miss something you’ve never had?

It’s just. He’d always been taught that people who spoke to him wanted something from him, and once they had gotten it, they would leave.

That’s the life he had learned to live.

That’s the life that he had blended in so well with, back then, when he was dinners and ties and jewelry and boredom. Fake smiles, plastic smiles, carefully calculated words, educated charisma.

That’s the only way he knew how to live.

But Enoshima redefines that.

* * *

They talk all the time, and she listens to him.

She doesn’t brush him off, doesn’t laugh when he spills his frustration about the day-to-day drag, doesn’t ever tell him he’s not doing enough, or being enough.

And he listens to her, all her ramblings about characters and arcs and plotlines and how the girl she sits next to in class draws the most adorable kitties in the side margins of her notebook.

She listens, he listens, and that’s their friendship.

A comfortable back-and-forth rally of conversation, an online-based camaraderie.

He had thought he would be content with that.

* * *

Enoshima let details of her daily life slip sometimes, and Amami connects the dots rather casually. A revelation, if you will.

See, where she spent most of her time, the conventions she would attend, the sights she would see and the arcades she would frequent – all of it led to the implication that she lived in the same city as him, so of course, he’d invited her to meet up.

Enthusiastically, accepted.

He’s been warned about meeting strangers online, but Amami is nothing if not a risk-taker. It’s an established point. If Enoshima did happen to come armed with a knife to stab him, he is prepared to let the cards fall where they may.

When he slips into the arcade to meet Enoshima by the vending machines, he’s approached by a sombre-looking girl who stumbles, slightly, glasses sliding down her nose, and when she raises her head to look at him again, she scowls.

“Hmph… I didn’t take you to be the flashy type, Kamukura-kun.”

“Enoshima-san.” He greets. He flicks his hair out of his eyes mildly, only a little self-conscious. It’s easier to find conversation when she doesn’t act as fake as everyone else he had known, and he thinks she knows that. He’s not offended by her attitude at all. “And I didn’t think you’d be so plain, considering your name.”

“Well, it’s Shirogane-san to you, actually,” she huffs, quickly adjusting her glasses. “And you? What’s your real name? Or should I start calling you Flashy Kamukura-kun?”

“Amami,” he offers. “Rantarou.”

“Hmph,” she crosses her arms. “Amami-kun, then.”

“Nice to finally meet you, Shirogane-san.”

“Not sure if I can say the same about you.”

“Harsh,” he laughs. He hikes his bag a little higher on his shoulder. “Well, at the very least, now you can confirm that I’m real and you are, too.”

“I never doubted that,” she says, shifting her weight from her left foot to her right. “You type like a normie.”

“And you type like a dictionary of anime references thrown into a blender.”

“With pride.” She declares solemnly. “And don’t you ever forget my worthless pride.”

“Haha, I make no promises.” He gestures beside them, bracelet sliding down his forearm. “Are you thirsty? Shall we raid a vending machine?”

“Oh, sure, if you’re paying.”

“That’s sly, Shirogane-san.”

“As long as you don’t go thinking this is a date or anything,” she retorts. “That would be plainly dreadful to even think about.”

“Hypothetical ouch,” Amami responds, sticking coins into the machine and letting her press the buttons. “But I get it. Your one true love is _Danganronpa_ and nobody is getting in the way of that.”

“Please, like you could fall for anything but your _adventures_ ,” she replies, accepting the proffered blue can of Calpico and snapping open the tab nonchalantly. “Makes for an interesting backstory, to say the least. I drafted at least three characters based off of you. I’ll send you the designs once I’ve refined them. Sailor, Stuntman, and Adventurer, of course!”

“Ah, as always, you’re so talented, Shirogane-san.” He says with a tinge of amusement. “Would the sailor version of me be wearing a sailor’s uniform?”

“Hmm, why, absolutely! Now that I look at you, you would look quite fitting in blue.” She grins for a moment, the most expression she’s shown him yet. It’s gone as quick as it came, but her eyes retain their sparkle. “Speaking of characters, Amami-kun, did you read my notes on my protagonist switch idea?”

“I did.” Amami pulls his own drink from the machine. “I think it’d have an even better effect if the true protagonist denied it at first. Breaks your heart a little, you know? He doesn’t believe she’s the real killer, or even if he does, he can’t help but evict her for the sake of everyone else.”

“Duly noted and considered,” she replies. She lifts two fingers in a ‘V’ sign. “And my concept for chapter two? Motive video or no?”

“Sadder if you did give the second victim a motive video, I’d think.”

“But the point is the second victim doesn’t have anything left to live for,” she protests.

“Mm, simple solution,” Amami replies. “The motive video has nothing on it. Nothing to live for even if they hoped for it.”

“The rise and the downfall,” Shirogane agrees. “Then he shall be desperate to see it, only to find out there’s truly nothing to live for. No hopes, no wishes, no dreams.”

“Dark, but it works.”

She takes a long sip of her soda, seeming to contemplate this.

“Say... do you think anyone would miss you if you disappeared, Amami-kun?” Shirogane asks, tucking a dark strand of hair behind her ear.

She doesn’t look at him, perhaps allowing him the privacy of gathering his thoughts, or perhaps — and more likely, Amami realizes — she simply doesn’t care enough. It’s refreshing, in a way it shouldn’t be.

“And answer honestly.” She adds like an afterthought.

“No. Not anymore.” He leans against the wall behind them. “But I’ve always known that much.”

“Mmhm. Me too. The world is… boring, huh? This kind of slow-motion everyday grind…”

Amami smiles for a moment, the kind of subtle quirks of the lips that could be easily missed. “Believe me, that’s an understatement.”

“Right. Of course. You’re right.” Shirogane mirrors his fleeting smile. “You know how it is, don’t you? Doesn’t it make you wanna run away, live a new life as somebody else?”

He laughs at that, airy and hollow. “Can’t do much of that, I’m afraid. We’re tied down to lives that sustain us, and no master how far we ran, it’ll catch up to us eventually. No matter where we are, or what we’re doing.”

“Mhm, well, you’re speaking as a realist, so I can’t blame you, I suppose,” she hums. “But if you could, would you? Free yourself from any kind of selfless devotion?”

“Without a doubt, yeah. Bad as it sounds.”

“We’re pretty similar, you and I,” Shirogane tells him, enunciating each syllable with heightened clarity. “We should join _Danganronpa_.”

“Join _Danganronpa_?” Amami scoffs. “That’d be one hell of a choice to make.”

* * *

His sister calls from an unknown number.

“Rantarou,” she murmurs. “I know he might have hurt you and I’m sorry if he did. I knew he wasn’t good for me. I knew he was mad, and I’m sorry I left him to you. You’re my big brother, so you did your job to protect me, and I’m really thankful for that. Call me back? I miss you. If you’d just explain, I’m sure father would understand. Things aren’t as fun without you. Life of the party and all that. Bye, hon.”

He still has the fucking bruises.

It started with a fight, but then that boy bit him on the jaw, had his teeth all up on him, angry and fierce. Hands around his wrists, pulling at his waist, pressing their faces together. Amami got off lucky, knowing nothing less than recklessness in the way he socked him in the face, but aching for days trying to wash the taste of him out of his mouth.

Punching and kicking through the laughter – “Oh, you like playing hard to get?” – the hands on his thighs, the marks on his neck, the pull of his necklace tight around his oesophagus.

Amami got off lucky, really, growing so spiteful he broke the guy’s nose before turning tail, the fear he so adored turning ugly in his throat. He got off lucky, because he escaped, even though the door was locked, because yeah, that’s lucky enough, right? Or so he thinks, but his stomach doesn’t untwist from its coils when he remembers it, and he still can’t spit out the revolting feeling that encases him when he thinks about it happening again.

Lucky enough, so he thought.

It could have been worse, he convinces himself.

He’s fine. Another close encounter to be saved from, to find grace in, be grateful for. To wash from his skin and be freed from, just like every other, just like he had always done.

Except.

Of course, it didn’t matter, anyway, because that asshole took pictures and the pictures made rumors. And these rumors forced his father’s hand, his precious little sister the princess of the family.

Oh, sorry. The heiress, now.

She doesn’t care about him at all.

Forget about her.

* * *

“It’s all about acting, Amami-kun,” Shirogane tells him over a strawberry cream parfait. “You came from a family of people who have to act to survive. You can blame them if you want, but all you’re blaming is the masks that they’re wearing.”

“Well, what do you think would happen if I went back?”

“You’d be a scapegoat, I would think,” she pushes the parfait towards him. “Anything goes wrong? We’ll just blame _Amami-kun,_ he’s already been disowned once so he’s the family disappointment, and from there! Cue the drama! And the new princely character that’s going to save you and possibly a redemption arc for your family if it gets that far. Equal chance for a plot twist, though. Maybe your sister would die a freakish death and they’ll come crawling back to you. You know what I mean?”

He wordlessly takes a spoon and starts to finish her dessert for her. “All that sounds pretty outlandish, I guess, but I can see where you’re coming from.”

“Anything goes, when it comes to fiction,” Shirogane replies, folding her napkin delicately into the beginnings of an origami crane. “The audience has to pity you, you know – that’s typically why the new character is introduced, so the world can give you a shoulder to lean on in your trying times. It would simply be boring if you just went back to living your old life again.”

“That’s so… convenient,” he muses, pushing around a strawberry on his plate. “That someone would just show up to be moral support.”

“Yah-hah! You say that but haven’t I shown up for you when you had nobody else, just like a blessing in disguise?” Shirogane points out more than she actually asks, uncharacteristically bright for a moment before dimming again. “And it’s more for the fanworks – _doujinshi, light novels, artwork,_ you name it. If a story has no potential for thinking and building upon, then it can hardly be called a story at all, don’t you think?”

“It would be a complete story though.” He says, considering it. “One that requires no changes, no sequels and no loose ends to be tied.”

“And I ask you imploringly, Amami-kun, where’s the fun in a story like that?”

* * *

The phone rings abandoned again. A voicemail is left.

“Rantarou, please listen. There’s been terrible things people have been saying about you. I don’t know what to believe anymore. Didn’t you go to live with your uncle like we told you to? He says you never showed up. Where are you? Were you kidnapped again? I’m worried sick, I feel like I’m going to fall apart.”

Amami clicks the phone off. “Fall apart for all I care.”

* * *

He doesn’t hate his family. Not really.

He just found his freedom without them, and realized that going back would only serve to cage him again.

Besides.

It’s not like he doesn’t know when they’re lying.

* * *

Most days, he meets Shirogane at the arcade after her classes.

They meet more often now that they both know they have nothing better to do, and talk _Danganronpa_ because that’s easier to talk about than negligent families and uninteresting peers.

Amami’s restlessness has simmered down to a dull ache. Hibernating through the winter. He feels like he might be in a slump. He ignores the feeling.

“Shirogane-san…” He enquires, twisting the bracelet around his wrist. Distractions, distractions. “Why did you choose Enoshima-san as your alias, anyway?”

Shirogane smiles wistfully, and not for the first time, Amami wonders how it is that someone can be living and breathing yet so far from it. She lacks the very energy that stirs inside him, desperate to be freed from the mundanity of life. She is simply so dispirited and empty. Barely existing.

Until she isn’t.

Her voice lifts, playful and high.

“‘Cause I love Enoshima Junko more than anything, but more importantly! She’s not boring!” Shirogane replies, straightening a crease in her skirt, and peering earnestly up at him. “You understand, don’t you, Amami-chan? How boring and tragic this world is… how every bit of hope always dies, and despair leaks in through the cracks… oh, no, it’s gonna make me cry!”

“Haha, yeah, okay,” he laughs, a little stunned by her sudden chirpiness, but accepting of it all the same. “That’s one way of putting it. But please don’t cry.”

“It’s a lieee, sheesh!” She exclaims. “I’m not actually gonna cry! I’ve never cried while watching _Danganronpa_ once!”

“Really? That’s pretty impressive.”

“Isn’t it just? But that’s also a lie!” She lights up, and there’s something manic in her eyes. “I think it’s beautiful, in it’s own way, though. Even the ugly parts of humanity can be beautiful, don’t you think? It’s lovely how tragedy can be something beautiful, too, and _Danganronpa_ encompasses this perfectly. Nnhh... but thinking like that can be tiring, as well. Don't you think some things can be liked just because they're likable, Amami-kun?”

He glances at her from the corner of his eye, slightly uneasy. “Yeah. I guess so.”

* * *

“Rejoice, peasant,” she skips into the arcade and hands him a plastic bag. “I, the esteemed Shirogane Tsumugi, has brought all my season 51 _nendoroids_ for your perusal.”

“I didn’t think they made _DanRon_ nendos,” Amami says, gently picking up one of the boxed figurines.

“They’re not official,” she admits. “But they’re really well made! It’s specialty merch to celebrate the survival of the SHSL Sculptor, I think,” she shuffles through the bag to produce another box to set on the table. “Indubitably! There she is!”

He peers into the plastic, seeing the familiar character smiling back at him. “You’re right. These are really well made.”

Shirogane kicks her feet childishly and smiles.

* * *

What he realizes, in the time he spends with Shirogane, is that she is becoming more and more _Danganronpa_ by the day.

“I will memorize every character,” she tells him. “Every character and every mannerism and every line. Every trial, every Free Time Event, every date option, every reaction. I will know everything there is to know about _Danganronpa_!”

“... I see,” he says, instead of asking why. “Good luck.”

* * *

“Shirogane-san, doesn’t it get tiring?”

She blinks up at him. “I think it’s plain fun to become a fictional character – it’s like living in another person’s shoes, and you could live their lives in millions of different ways. Don’t you think that’s amazing? Don’t you think the fictional world is amazing?”

* * *

She recites the entire script of _Danganronpa 50_ to him over weeks of text messages and he cross-checks them with the scriptbook she bought for him, bookmarking to remind himself where they last left off.

Her accuracy is 100%.

* * *

Yeah, she’s pretty fanatical, but it’s how she copes with being sad.

Amami understands, he thinks, so he forgives her a little more each time.

He would like it if she could be happy.

* * *

He attaches fast to that notion.

Making Shirogane happy.

Because she _is_ sad, and the more he spends time with her, the more he realizes this.

The more he wants to help her.

The more he discovers it might not be possible.

* * *

“I’ll find something you’ll enjoy, Shirogane-san,” he says. “It will be something that will top _Danganronpa_.”

“If you say so.” She replies, unconvinced. “Pass me that egg, and don’t break it this time, degenerate.”

* * *

Amami starts researching _Danganronpa_ more than he ever had before.

It becomes like study to him, analyzing trends and finding patterns, but in his desperation, he is losing the exhilaration the more he rewatches. The passion, the suspense. It’s slipping, the longer his eyes scan the screen. Day, night, _Danganronpa_.

He keeps replaying. Deaths, executions, even the positions the corpses lie in – he learns to memorize them all. Not word-for-word, but pose-for-pose, frame-by-frame. 

In hopes he would start to see what Shirogane is seeing.

And he does.

* * *

It was exciting, once.

Just like reading, imagining living that tumultuous life elsewhere – imagining the claws of a killing game trapping him somewhere, where he’d expertly manoeuvre class trials and survive.

If he enters a killing game, Amami wants to survive.

But the more he watches, and watches, he realizes that ‘if’ really isn’t enough.

When he enters a killing game, Amami will survive.

* * *

They’re at the supermarket when he wants to tell her, the words sitting heavy in his throat.

“Why is it that people don’t fall out of that ride at the amusement park, Amami-kun?” Shirogane asks, oblivious, pointing at the giant swinging boat on the advertisement plastered by the dairy fridges. “There are no seatbelts…”

“The centrifugal force will keep it in motion,” Amami tells her.

“Amazing,” Shirogane remarks, typing notes into her phone. “Is it possible to spin someone so fast that their insides displace?”

“Holy shit,” Amami laughs. He’s used to these conversations. “That’s terrible. What the hell are you going to do with that kind of information?”

“I just wanted to know if it was possible. You know, like how Oowada-san was liquefied in Season 1!”

“Ah, I see!” Amami snaps his fingers together as if coming to a realization. “Well, it would have to be insanely fast to do so, but I don’t think it’s impossible.”

“Yes… look, Amami-kun!” Shirogane lifts a block of butter from the fridge nearby and pinches it between her fingers with a smile. “It’s Oowada-kun!”

Amami laughs again because he doesn’t know how else to react, and Shirogane looks so happy and in her element that he doesn’t want to spoil that.

“It is Oowada-kun,” he agrees, and then without a prompt he makes the confession. “And hey, I’m signing up for _Danganronpa._ ”

* * *

Shirogane is quiet, but not displeased.

“I have to go to school,” she says, and it’s a seemingly irrelevant statement until she continues, “But once I find a way out, I will, too. Can you wait for me?” A short giggle leaves her, cupped by the palm over her mouth. “Goodness, this is starting to sound like a _shoujo_. It’s the curse of being your friend, Amami-kun.”

“You think so?”

“By convention, you look just like the typical frivolous _ikemen_. Shallow love interest,” she rolls her eyes, almost disgusted by the thought. “Luckily, the subversion of tropes is coming to be popular these days. I would love to see what _Danganronpa_ would do with you.”

He smiles. “Me, too. Seems like it will be pretty interesting.”

* * *

“Hm, Amami-kun,” Shirogane starts. “Has anybody ever told you that you have _tareme_?”

He looks at her over the rim of his cup, then back down at his reflection in his coffee. It’s true, his eyes have a downward slope to them, drooping at the outer edges, but that is a trait of his that he has no control over. He peers back at Shirogane.

“Hang on. You have _tareme_ , too!”

“That took you a moment, didn’t it?” She giggles. “There are implications about droopy eyes like ours, you know? People with _tareme_ look kinder, and softer. They’re the sorts of people you can’t help but place your trust in.”

* * *

Shirogane hushes him, dragging him behind the photo booth curtain and peering outside.

“That’s Akamatsu-san,” she tells him. “She sits next to me in class.”

“Why don’t you go and talk to her?”

“The less presence I have the better.” She sighs. “Akamatsu-san is above things like _Danganronpa_.”

He peers out at her. “A shame. She seems pretty bright.”

* * *

“Rantarou-kun,” Shirogane greets, head tipping through the doorway, moments before she leaves for the night.

“Hey,” he shoots back. “What’s up?”

“Will you help me fake my suicide?”

Amami blinks. In any ordinary scenario, he’s sure he should decline, but Shirogane –

“For _Danganronpa_?” He asks.

“For _Danganronpa_.”

He smiles even though he shouldn't. She just looks so happy.

She is his best friend and this is the only thing that makes her happy.

There’s no way he could refuse a request like that.

“Then, what are you waiting for? Let’s get to it.”

* * *

Standing by Shirogane’s side, taking pictures of her faked corpse, constantly peering over his shoulder to make sure he wouldn’t get caught — it’s a different kind of thrill.

An almost empty one. Unsettling, driving flicks of anxiety across his skin as he keeps snapping photos, and clearing his throat before he inevitably has to call the police and report the scene.

Shirogane ducks off to the bathroom, and Amami stands above the scene and feels nothing.

He dials.

It should be simple. He’s not the murderer. He’s her dear friend that is devastated that he couldn’t save her.

He can play the part.

“Hello? I— I don’t know how to start this, but I just found a body—” he drives his fist into his throat to mime a choked sob. “I think my best friend just tried to kill herself, I don’t know if, I don’t know if she can be saved, but– if you could please come and have a look– you can? Thank you so much, I cannot thank you enough.”

He hangs up, and the expression evaporates from his face.

“Boo,” Shirogane says, appearing suddenly, and he jumps ever so slightly, then laughs.

“What are you doing?”

“Cosplaying,” she replies, doing a quick twirl topped off with a curtsey. “How do I look?”

“Like Enoshima Junko.”

“Well done, you have eyes! And I _am_ Enoshima Junko, thank you very much!” She grins, ribbing him playfully. “Saaay, your best friend just died, didn’t she, Rantarou-kun? Isn’t that so terribly despairing?”

“My best friend is standing right here, dressed as Enoshima Junko and trying to play mind games with me.” He laughs again, waving a hand. “Not working, by the way. Though you do make a pretty convincing Enoshima.”

“Upupupu, nope, nope! She’s dead and that’s it! Good riddance!” She tugs a plush Monokuma from her bag and lifts it in front of her face. “It’s not really so bad without her. The world is full of terrible people, after all, and your best friend might be one of them. Don’t you think?”

It’s a fair sentiment, Amami thinks, but it’s not something he doesn’t know already. He has known for a long time. Shirogane knows, too.

He doesn’t care.

“Sometimes, when it comes to terrible people,” he says, “You just hope you might be enough to save them. And you keep hoping.”

“Foolish, foolish boy,” Enoshima-Shirogane tells him, tapping his cheek with a crimson nail. “You’re totally one of those protagonist types, right? The boring, righteous hero! Eugh, gross! Or are you the frivolous type? The fashionable type? Not with an outfit like that!”

“Tsumugi-san,” he sighs, moving to his knees to slip slowly into an artificial mourning. “Come on. Your work is done here. You can’t be here when the police arrive.”

She looks at the bloodied pavement, then looks back at him. “Hey, Rantarou-kun?”

“Yes?”

“Would you cry if I died?”

He takes in the sight of her blue, blue eyes, the way that – for a moment – she’s not Enoshima Junko at all, she’s just Shirogane Tsumugi in clothes that are too flashy for her, makeup too dramatic, a stance that’s far too confident.

She’s not Shirogane Tsumugi, _Danganronpa_ devotee.

She’s just his best friend.

(But that could be a lie.)

(Is there even any difference between the two anymore?)

“I would.” He says.

“You’d be the only one.” She mumbles.

He pretends he doesn't hear it, because he doesn’t know how to respond without agreeing wholeheartedly.

When she leaves, he forces out the tears and answers all the questions he’s given with a broken voice, _it’s a lie, it’s a lie, it’s a lie,_ he’s never felt so messed up in his life.

He’s her best friend. He can play the part.

* * *

He’s invited to her memorial assembly.

When the students start to say nice things about her, he wants to laugh.

As if anyone knew what Shirogane was really like.

If she could be here, she would probably laugh, too.

* * *

They draft her suicide note together, before he hands it in to the police with a hanging head.

He's fine.

* * *

“Hello Rantarou-kun,” she swings her legs over the side of the balcony, joining him in his perch. “I’m a ghost here to haunt you.”

“Very spooky,” he replies. “Congrats on the acceptance.”

“I should be saying congrats to you,” she sighs. “It’s not fair. They see a pretty boy, and they accept immediately.”

“Haha, you know it didn’t work like that.”

“Let me complain in peace,” She grumbles, eyes casting to the side with a huff. “It’s really not so far a stretch as you seem to think it is.”

“Hey, we both got in,” he says, patting her on the back. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

* * *

“Rantarou-kun,” she whispers. “Promise me you’ll do anything for _Danganronpa_.”

He smiles, arms fanning out in a lazy arc. “What’s this all of a sudden? I thought that was a given.”

* * *

When is it going to be fun again, he just wanted to feel a little more alive-?

* * *

“Would you kill me for _Danganronpa_?” Shirogane asks.

Amami tries to search for a clue as to how she’d like him to respond, but her expression is unfortunately blank.

“I don’t know if that’s something I can control,” Amami replies evenly. “Nor is it something I can choose. But if you’re asking if I am capable of doing so, then I’d say yeah. I could do it. Take it on faith.”

* * *

Who is he, anyway? What is he doing here? What does he want to accomplish?

* * *

“Rantarou-kun,” she says. “I want you to stay safe, no matter what. Win, no matter what. Promise me this, because we are best friends.”

“Promise.”

They lock their pinkies together.

“Let’s be the first season to reach the two survivor rule, hmm? Let’s make history.”

* * *

Direction.

Directive.

Okay.

They have to win.

* * *

(And maybe everyone wants to have that kind of permanence in this world — leave their legacy, tell their story — but Amami wants none of it. He’s starting to realize in this convoluted string of tragedies that this isn’t what he wanted at all.

The terror that climbs up his throat isn’t fun.

Seeing Shirogane on that podium with her wickedest smile isn’t fun.

Pressing a button to determine who lives and dies isn’t surviving, it’s volunteering for murder.

He finds that he really, truly doesn’t care, anymore.)

* * *

No matter what.

* * *

When Amami emerges from _Danganronpa_ a survivor, the blood of people he barely remembers knowing left behind and the ones he sacrificed himself to save now with their backs turned, he falls into her arms and sobs.

“You did so well,” Shirogane whispers. “You just have to make it one more time. You love _Danganronpa_ , don’t you? Remember, you wanted this.”

“I did,” he clutches her tightly. “I did, but it hurt so much. It hurt so much, you don’t even understand– being the protagonist, having the weight of everyone’s lives in your hands, and watching them die anyway, I just–”

“But at least it wasn’t boring, was it?”

When he looks up at her, he can only nod.

“At least it wasn't boring.”

* * *

His memories -

Are -

Chopping up -

For some reason. 

* * *

“And we survived!” She grins, even if it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Isn’t that what you wanted? Doesn’t that make you hopeful?”

“You know any shred of hope is just begging to be torn down.”

“Cynical Rantarou-kun,” she taps him on the forehead. Once, twice. “I would like to think of this all as a learning experience. Becoming one with despair! Becoming one with _Danganronpa_! Isn’t this everything we ever dreamed of?”

* * *

Nothing - 

Makes any -

Sense.

* * *

“Yeah. I suppose you’re right.”

“Come, come,” she tugs at his sleeve. “We have a new season to get to.”

* * *

Is this the story she wants to tell? 

* * *

He plays his tragic hero archetype when they meet the new cast.

The disconnect is necessary.

Amami Rantarou — anguished survivor — and Shirogane Tsumugi — a mastermind reprised — are not supposed to be friends.

Shirogane hovers close by her old classmate Akamatsu, and then he wonders.

* * *

He enters his second killing game and keeps wondering.

He might be losing his mind.

* * *

Win no matter what. Survive no matter what.

It's instinct that he doesn't want to follow. 

* * *

Shirogane seems -

Nice.

Well, everyone does. Seem.

Lovely, in fact.

It’s a pity.

He can’t -

Trust anybody here.

It’s a pity.

If he doesn’t end this, someone –

Or everyone –

Will die.

* * *

Amami is safest alone.

* * *

Amami is not safe, but he could be.

He knows he doesn’t have to take it upon himself to end this killing game. He knows he doesn’t have to hover by the secret door, waiting for time to tick down. He knows that when he sees that camera flash, he doesn’t have to go towards it. He knows that when that shot put ball falls, he doesn’t have to watch it roll, doesn’t have to think about how it could have landed.

He knows all of this, just as much as he knows that when he hears the door open, he doesn’t have to turn around, but he’s come this far knowing he’s done so much he didn't need to that he does anyway.

Amami sees her in the library.

He sees her, he remembers, and maybe it’s the way she looks at him that holds him in place, or maybe it’s the fact that she’s raising that shot put ball above her head with eyes that communicate nothing that he realizes his best friend belongs to _Danganronpa_ completely now and he's never been further from it.

There is no saving her. Perhaps there was never a way to save her. Perhaps she had been destined for this, and perhaps this moment was made to happen, to show him that she was exactly the terrible person she said she was.

Perhaps she had never even thought of them as friends.

* * *

_Do you think anyone would miss you if you disappeared, Amami-kun?_

* * *

He lets her kill him, by the way.

Because, well.

Maybe it’d make her happy.


End file.
